


honey-hair and cherry sweets

by 1derspark



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Hair Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Nicky's grown it out, Regency, Semi-Public Sex, and Joe loses his SHIT, fruit as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26907544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1derspark/pseuds/1derspark
Summary: Nicky twirls around with the sword in another mock-strike, and the leather tie holding his hair back releases, sending his hair out into the light, in a honey-brown ruin.He’s been growing it out, mostly for a change of pace, partly because Joe loves playing with it, but hair is a hassle in wartime. A mess to keep straight and a weakness to hide from opponents, but their missions are mundane enough nowadays that Nicky doesn’t mind it.Joe isnotcomplaining.(Or Nicky grows his hair out and bewitches his husband)
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 44
Kudos: 451





	honey-hair and cherry sweets

**Author's Note:**

> So Ink shared a gif in the discord of Luca in ricordi! with his hair long, kissing up against a tree and I lost my shit. I spewed this all out in a matter of hours. Also, I listened to the Pride and Prejudice (2005) soundtrack while writing this. I'm going very much for that vibe, but gayer. 
> 
> Much love to pines who looked this over for me, thank you thank you <3
> 
> Enjoy!

Joe comes face to face with “sunshowers” in an Englishman's manor that Andy has stolen as a base, in another never-ending quest to calm the rioting of the world.

More than seven hundred years past his birth, and into his first death, there is not a day that Joe doesn’t dream about the heat of his homeland. The sun has seeped into his bones and stayed despite how often he comes to break them. He thrives in dry heat, the unmistakable brand of sand and shades of gold. Water wells in which to quench himself. 

Nicky too, prefers it warm, though he handles rain and snow better. He has always been the one to rise in the morning, working with the animals, the crops, whatever it was that needed tending to, while the dew clung stubbornly to the grass and Joe slept in as much as he could, somewhat bereft at a Nicky-less bed.

This morning Joe grumbles his displeasure into a pile of pillows. The night had been cold, even with June a few days away, and the fire in the hearth had long burned out in the night. Nicky, his beloved, has left him alone and shivering in the morning light. 

Joe turns to the window and to his surprise finds rain clinging to the glass, though the sun shines outside. He rubs at his eyes but the rain remains in a stubborn drizzle.

Somehow he makes his way out of bed, though it takes more willpower than he’d care to admit, and dresses to brave the weather. 

He emerges into the large sitting room of the house where Nicky will often be, setting breakfast around the table for him and Andy to peruse. Joe isn’t fond of his alone time in bed, he’d much rather pin Nicky there in the toasty sheets and kiss that beautiful skin for hours on end, but breakfast by one Nicolo di Genova is almost as good a substitute. 

Andy can’t cook anything that she can’t spear on a stick and roast over an open flame, she is more than happy to leave the culinary arts to him and Nicky. And Joe can cook, he is in no way inept at the art, his fondness for sweets rivals their leader’s and the days where his inspiration lacks in his pen, his paints, sometimes he’ll turn to the kitchen if they have one, emerging with a platter full of pecan cookies or citrus zested cakes. 

But it’s Nicky who made a master of the kitchen. The spread he can make when he has the time, the resources, were fit for kings, but ten times better because he made it for  _ family.  _ There was little better in the world than digging into a dish Nicky made and kissing the blush on his cheeks as Joe showers him in compliments.

But on the morning of his first sunshower, Joe finds that he’s either slept in too long or Nicky had awoken too early. Nicky is absent from the dining room, instead, there is only Andromache picking through a small platter of cut meat and cheese while she pours over some documents. Probably the floorplans of a building, a factory no doubt, that she’s dragged them here to infiltrate.

“He’s out in the gardens,” Andy says chewing around a slice of ham. 

“I didn’t say anything!” Joe protests, sliding into the seat at her side to look over the papers.

Andy looks up, a dry smirk on her face. “I could hear you pining all the way over here. It’s beyond words.” Wordlessly she passes a bowl of fruit his way, full of red-black cherries with grass-green stems. 

“I didn’t know it was cherry season,” Joe says, rolling one of them in between his fingers before popping it in his mouth where it pops under his teeth, sweet and rich.

“It’s warm enough now,” Andy says. “Nicky went to town this morning and got the first crop from the orchardman a few acres south.”

Joe hums, a pleasant warmth settling in his chest, that old familiar feeling of love and pride and gratitude for the man he’s loved for more than half a millennia. Fruit was hard to come by and more expensive than it was often worth, but with Joe and Andy’s penchant for sweetness, it did not surprise him that Nicky would buy some. 

“We should head out tomorrow,” Andy says. “The rain will stop soon and we can take the road to London.”

“To Parliament I presume,” Joe says. He brushes a hand over Andy’s papers. Maps of the factories up Northern England and the Midlands, not to mention Wales or Scotland and the land there that’s been strewn away for these hulking buildings that pumped out long thick plumes of soot. The conditions inside are a different kind of hell in itself. 

“About time for a reform I think,” Andy says. She waves him away then. “Go, enjoy the day with Nicky. Your days sleeping in are numbered.”

Joe scoffs, grabs a few cherries, kisses Andy on the cheek, and makes his way out, barefooted into the grass with nothing but an overcoat and some light pants on. 

The rain has calmed to a barely-there drizzle, a few drops here and there in the sunshine. He finds Nicky easily who’s favored spot on the property has become the ages-old oak tree out beyond the gardens, planted on the edge of the meadow that marks the property boundary. 

He has his sword with him and he’s going through his forms. He must be at the end of it, his shirt billowed and white is rolled up to the elbow and damp with a marker of sweat and rain. The cuffs of his pants, which Andy would say are too tight but Joe certainly has no complaints, are dotted with brown spots of mud. 

Nicky in battle is something beautiful, something horrifying. Joe can recall the fear in his body, that choke-hold effect Nicky can have on a person where you’re sword to sword, close enough to count the many greens in his irises and taste the heat of steel in the wind his swing leaves behind. It’s exhilarating, all fighting is in a way, though war is not. 

A sparring Nicky is more muted, Joe can appreciate him without thinking too hard about saving his own skin. When they spar together it’s a dance, and he has half a mind to go back to the house for his scimitar, but he’s content to appreciate the view.

Nicky twirls around with the sword in another mock-strike, and the leather tie holding his hair back releases, sending his hair out into the light, in a honey-brown ruin. 

He’s been growing it out, mostly for a change of pace, partly because Joe loves playing with it, but hair is a hassle in wartime. A mess to keep straight and a weakness to hide from opponents, but their missions are mundane enough nowadays that Nicky doesn’t mind it. 

Joe is  _ not  _ complaining.

Nicky startles a bit when he finally catches Joe leaning by the oak tree. His hair curls down to his shoulder in shiny waves, some of it plastered to his nape with sweat. 

“Sparring without me?” Joe drawls, giving Nicky a good up and down peruse.

Nicky snorts, bending down to pick up his sheathe and sliding his sword back inside. “As if I could drag you out of bed.” He comes over and wraps his arms around Joe’s shoulders, drawing him in for a long, lazy kiss.

“Hmmm,” Nicky says, pulling away smiling. “You had the cherries, yes?”

Joe kisses him again, once, twice. “You can taste it on me,” he says. “Thank you for getting them.” He runs his hand sneakily up into Nicky’s hair tugging on the strands at the root. Nicky’s breath hitches and his neck falls back, baring his throat.

“You are too good to me,” Joe whispers into the skin under his jaw. He nips lightly with his teeth until Nicky’s skin blooms with a love bite, fading away all too soon.

Nicky’s breathing has picked up, his hands have traveled under Joe’s overcoat and shirt searching for warm bare skin. His fingers crawl up the plane of Joe’s back and dig in when Joe laves a particularly hard suck just above his collarbone.

“Do you even know how you look,  _ hayati? _ ” Joe whispers into Nicky’s mouth. “You are a god in the sunshine. You look like something  _ different  _ like you’ve come to tempt me to my doom. This hair—” He curls a fistful of it in his hand to draw Nicky in closer, somehow closer, he’d fuse himself to this man if he could, “You could bewitch anyone you chose.”

“Ah,” Nicky breathes out, his voice coming out in short little cutoffs that drives Joe mad. He’s been half-hard since he’d spotted his love in the meadow with a sword, now one brush of Nicky’s hand and swears he’d come. 

Nicky leans back, out of breath, until they’re just nose to nose, with Joe’s hands Nicky’s cheeks stroking gently with his thumb. He pushes at Nicky’s lips until his thumb goes in his mouth, and Nicky sucks at the pad with his tongue.

“I bewitch you,” Nicky breathes over Joe’s fingers, over Joe’s rattling moan. “There is no one else in the world who I would let close enough to touch.” 

Joe pulls him in roughly, backing up with Nicky frantic and hot against his mouth until his back meets the tree. He kisses him leaving no room for words between them. Should Nicky speak again, he might cry, he might explode, he might do an unfathomable amount of unsavory things with him in the high grass of this meadow. And while they’ve done worse, Joe isn’t too keen on washing English mud out of his crotch.

Instead, Joe reaches down for Nicky’s waistband until he has his cock in hand, swallowing down Nicky’s gasp when he runs a hand over the head, already damp, leaking against his underclothes. 

Nicky’s hands grip tight at Joe’s neck while he strokes, gasping into the warm crook Joe’s neck while he strokes. It doesn’t take him long, Joe has spent  _ years  _ learning what Nicky likes, what makes him pant and whine and beg. He keeps his grip just on this side of too tight, makes sure to keep his mouth occupied with the spot beneath Nicky’s ear, cooing encouragement in lost languages until he comes hot in Joe’s hand.

Joe presses soft kisses against Nicky’s slack lips while he comes down, and gasps when Nicky drops to his knees, bringing Joe’s trousers down with him.

He licks a hot stripe up Joe’s exposed cock, and sucks at the head before popping off with a sinful grin. 

“Hold on,” Nicky says in a rasp, grabbing Joe’s hand and pushing it into the wavy mop of his hair. Joe counts backward from ten just at the sight, the sound of Nicky’s rumbling timbre. He throws his head back against the tree when Nicky swallows him down, moaning low into the daylight.

He has a passing notion for their publicity, out in the open against the grandest tree on the lot. There’s no one here but them and Andy back at the house but he shivers with the thought. Nicky at his knees, that wicked mouth on Joe’s cock, Joe’s hands tugging at that bronzed hair reminiscent of some forest god.

Joe imagines the picture they make. He almost comes just from that. 

Instead, he focuses on the best thing, Nicky and his red red mouth, the way he looks up at Joe with those eyelashes fluttering, how he moans at a tug of his hair. Joe curls the strands around his fingers and thrusts as much as he dares.

“ _ Nicolo,”  _ he chokes out. Nicky has a firm hand on his ass, traveling down to press at his hole, just enough pressure to tease. Joe’s babbling, or sobbing or both. “Nicolo, ah,  _ please—” _

Nicky sucks him down further with a whine, and it’s like a punch to the gut. Joe comes with his head thrown back, his hands gripped tight in Nicky’s hair, holding him there until Nicky pulls off. 

Joe slides down the tree until he’s knee to knee with Nicky. He takes Nicky’s face in his hands, kisses his cheeks, the flushed bow of his lips where Joe can taste himself still.

“You will be the end of me,” Joe says all too happily.

“I will have it no other way,” Nicky says. He plays with one of Joe’s curls, springy just behind his ear. 

Nicky leans in for a bright, easy kiss, as treasured to Joe as all the others. “We will be the end of each other.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come check me out on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/1derspark)! I'm taking prompts at the moment so if you have an idea please don't hesitate to drop me something! Or just come and say hi :)
> 
> As always comments and kudos are appreciated and feed the beast!


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